


a shot away from you

by debilitas



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Trans Male Character, Trans Octane | Octavio Silva, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: Stress relief: that’s all it is. Just a couple of guys having some fun between gunning each other down for sport.
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt/Octane | Octavio Silva
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	a shot away from you

**Author's Note:**

> *crashes through the front window of miroctane nation* what’s up guys   
> includes unmasked octane face hc also he’s got a split tongue. can’t believe that’s not already a tag on here
> 
> written by a trans man. both clit & dick are used to refer to octanes genitalia. cw for vaginal penetration, barebacking, and octane having no top chop, his chest is visible and given attention, could be dysphoria inducing if ur very sensitive to that kind of thing. stay comfy I love u

There's no sound worse than the resounding _click_ of an empty magazine, Elliott decides. Nothing fills him with dread quite like tensing a well-practiced trigger finger and not hearing the familiar crack of a gunshot.

Especially when he's backed into a corner, shieldless in more ways than one under Octavio's gaze.

The early game scramble has to be Elliott's least favorite part. The sheer chaos of hundreds of boots hitting the dirt at once, tripping over one another in their race to find a weapon. Grabbing blindly at gear; gunning down the person next to him with no time for genuine tactics.

He got lucky when he found the Alternator that's now useless in his hands, but that luck was short lived. He's going to take the embarrassing title of first blood, and Octavio's definitely never going to let him live it down.

Thankful that his eyes are still concealed behind his goggles, Elliott risks a glance toward the nearest window. Figures he could make a mad dash for it, pray that the other man's aim falters, and that he can squeeze through the bars to freedom. The fall will hurt like hell— but it won't kill him. Probably.

Then Octavio squeezes the trigger of his Peacekeeper, and the click that echoes through both their ears becomes Elliott's favorite sound. He sees the opportunity he's been given, and doesn't hesitate to take it. Darting across the room, he heads straight for the window.

When a hundred odd pounds of daredevil tackles him to ground, Elliott settles some arguments by deciding he really is stupid. He actually tried to race _Octane_ of all people. The internal voice that insults him sounds a bit like his old gym teacher, sending an instinctive shiver down his spine.

Elliott hits the linoleum hard, icy wedges of pain jabbing through his ribcage with the impact. Tries to squirm free, feeling his goggles being knocked askew from the struggle.

Octavio might be fast, but Elliott spends just a bit too much time in the gym. Though he won't be winning any races anytime soon, he outmatches the other man when it comes to the game of upper body strength. 

With a grunt, he shoves Octavio off, hearing the clatter of metal feet against the floor. Makes another move for the window, spotting Anita looting below, and tries to call out to her. Before he can, Octavio crashes into him again, wrapping around his torso in a vice grip.

Elliott collapses to his back, but the hold doesn't relent. Steel limbs are curled around his waist, digging uncomfortably into the soft flesh of his belly, while lithe arms knot across his throat. Then they start to squeeze, and it feels entirely too personal.

"What the hell, man?" Elliott chokes out, pawing uselessly at the arms around his windpipe.

"You upstaged me," Octavio huffs, clearly struggling. He speaks directly into the other man's ear, with a scratch to his voice that makes Elliott wonder if he used to smoke. "Not cool, _amigo_."

Feeling lightheaded, Elliott vaguely recalls the beginning of the match. The large digital display of his banner, and the declaration that he was the previous game's Champion. _Shit._ He really should talk to someone about the massive target that title places on his back—

"This," Octavio pauses, sucking in a harsh breath. "Is way harder than it looks."

"Well, duh— _did you just bite me?_ "

Elliott feels a sharp pain on the shell of his ear, and comes to the _gross_ realization that Octavio indeed worked his mask free, and has resorted to biting him. Making a sound of disgust, he forces his way out of Octavio's weakening grip, spinning around to pin him down.

Octavio is much harder to hold that Elliott ever expected. He kicks and squirms like an animal that doesn't want to be caught, managing to wriggle himself free a few times before Elliott grabs his wrists. Fingers looping around the small bone, he moves the other man's arms, pinning them high above his head.

It's enough to make Octavio have a rare moment of stillness, and Elliott realizes the gravity of the situation they've gotten themselves into. 

Mouth dry, he's suddenly aware of his legs braced on either side of Octavio's narrow waist. The feel of their chests meeting as they make ragged exhales; the sounds of frantic, dual-mouthed inhales.

Octavio’s expression is half concealed by the goggles, but his chapped lips are stretching into something unbearably smug. A split tongue swipes his upper lip, and the glimpse of it makes Elliott’s gut churn.

He remembers being tucked into a corner, ears ringing from gunshots outside. The smell of sweat and Stim, frantic hands sliding down his bodysuit.

“N-Not enough time,” he said, stumbling over the first syllable. Rocked his hips toward the friction, palms flat against the wall behind him.

“Don’t worry,” was Octavio’s reply, and that split tongue made the briefest of appearances. Elliott wondered what it’d feel like against his own, or swirling around his cock. “I’ll be quick.”

In the present, a knee slots between his legs. It toes the line between intentional and not, just enough contact to get him interested without any relief. He watches the muscles in Octavio’s throat move when he swallows, the column of his neck suddenly _very_ inviting.

It’d be so easy for Elliott to put his mouth over the place where the other man’s neck and shoulder meet. Graze his teeth over the sweat slick skin before lapping at it with his tongue, tasting salt and heat.

They could get away with a few quick things here. Paw at one another in the corner of an empty building, drunk on adrenaline and arousal.

But this is _Octavio_ he’s talking about, and the guy would kick him in the dick just as easily as he’d suck it if it meant winning. Elliott becomes so absorbed in mulling over the possibilities that he doesn’t hear the sound of boots stomping up the nearby stairs until it’s too late.

Anita speaks first.

“Oh, for the love of—“

Then Crypto. Of course he decided to tag along for the first time ever. At this rate, Elliott would’ve preferred getting shot.

“He appears to be… _compromised_.”

Elliott’s been telling the kid he should laugh more— but not at his expense. Get what you ask for, unfortunately.

“H-Hey, guys,” he stammers out, sitting up on unsteady knees. “It’s not what it look—“

Then, just to add another helping to the terrible day he’s having, Octavio kicks Elliott directly between the legs. It earns him a bullet through the skull, courtesy of Anita, but he’d long since won the fight.

Elliott tries to take the assault in a noble way, a mere grunt escaping his mouth instead of the squeak he’s repressing. Forces himself to get to his feet, bracing against the nearby wall while his squad starts looting.

Doing his best to remain casual, he says, “No ammo. Had to resort to some, uh, hand to hand combat.”

Crypto snorts, then tries to cover it with a cough. Anita gives him a pat on the back that sends him reeling.

“No problem, princess. Couldn’t miss an opportunity to shoot Silva.” She throws a Flatline toward him.

He barely catches it. “Exactly! That’s why I was holding him still for you.”

“Generosity doesn’t suit you,” Crypto adds, fishing that pesky drone out of its place on his back. “Neither does lying.”

Elliott groans. 

Out of the _many_ perks being a celebrity provides, having a private bathroom is one of Elliott’s favorites. While the rest of the Legends have to endure communal showers and fight for space in front of mirrors in the morning, he can take his sweet time. Admire his reflection for as long as he’d like, style and adjust his curls until they’re perfect.

Or jerk off in the shower uninterrupted.

Hot water cascades onto his back, soothing whatever aches remained from the previous game. With hair spilling into his face, he braces a hand on the smooth wall in front of him, feverishly pumping his cock with the other.

He’s been told he talks too much; is entirely too loud. Now that he hears himself echoing through the small space, he thinks those people may be right. 

He alternates between whimpers and sharp gasps for air, thoroughly gnawing his bottom lip as he tries to suppress the desperate noises. Remembers the tightness of Octavio’s fist, tries to pretend it’s currently around his cock instead of his own.

With a thumb, Elliott spreads precum from the flushed head to the shaft, because that’s what Octavio did. The man had no patience for _real_ lubricant— but who’d expect him to?

It’s rough, aided a little by the stream of water, with not nearly enough of a smooth glide for Elliott’s tastes. With a frustrated grunt he spits into his palm, then resumes.

_Much better._ He’s got no idea how it felt so much better when it was Octavio’s dry hand on him—

Scratch that. He’s got _some_ idea, but there’s no way he’ll risk vocalizing it. Even entertaining the thought is more dangerous than he’d like it to be.

Stress relief: that’s all it is. Just a couple of guys having some fun between gunning each other down for sport. 

...Right? 

Elliott is startled awake by a loud _thud_. He sits up straight in bed, hurriedly pushing the satin sleep mask away from his eyes.

The light streaming into the room disappears, reduced to a faint glow at the bottom of his door when it’s closed. A figure stands at the foot of the bed, and in the early stages of consciousness, it’s the single most terrifying thing Elliott’s ever seen. 

Then it speaks.

“Makoa won’t stop fuckin’ snoring.” Octavio really sounds like a former smoker when he’s tired.

Elliott squints, and the other man comes into focus. He’s stripped down to a skintight pair of briefs, complete with a custom waistband that displays _OCTANE_ in jagged letters. Elliott would chide him for it, if he didn’t have a similar pair in the nearby dresser.

The heap of curls that serves as Octavio’s asymmetrical mohawk is more of a mess than usual. Strands thoroughly fried from years of dyeing, they stick out in all directions, with a clump hanging over his forehead. 

He yawns, scratching idly at his chest. Then climbs into bed too quickly for Elliott to complain about steel limbs ruining his sheets. The other man drops onto his belly, face crushed against the mattress. He doesn’t bother with any covers, and Elliott can already feel the heat emanating off him.

Octavio’s rest is more akin to hibernation. He’ll stay up for days, bouncing around the dropship and bugging anyone that stands still for too long. Goes and goes until his body collapses underneath him, sleeps deeply for a solid twelve hours, then does it all over again.

Elliott pokes his cheek, only to find that he’s already fast asleep. Though his angular nose twitches in response, the rest of his body gives no other indication that he felt it.

Settling further into bed, Elliott guides some stray curls away from Octavio’s face with a hand. His mouth is slightly ajar, lip piercings barely visible in the dark. A scar slices through his cupid’s bow, stopping around the philtrum. On impulse, Elliott traces it with the pad of a thumb.

When he does, Octavio’s face twitches again, and he takes a congested inhale. If Elliott didn’t already know the guy had broken his nose more than once, the snores he’s hearing now would've given it away. 

Elliott touches the scar again. “What’ve you done to yourself?” 

He’s not certain which one of them he’s asking. 

“What’s the matter, pretty boy?”

Elliott takes in a breath that burns the back of his throat, feels a bead of sweat creep down his brow. His heart thunders at a manic pace, threatening to burst through his chest.

“ _Can’t keep up?_ ”

Before Elliott can choke out a retort, the toe of his overpriced sneaker fails to find traction in the dirt, and he slips forward. Trips over his own feet, stumbling upright for half a second, then tumbles. Falls flat on his face, picturing dirt stains on his newest pair of sweatpants.

Octavio skids to a stop ahead of him, metal feet digging tiny holes into the ground. Turns around, springs squeaking as he runs to close the distance between them.

Spitting out what tastes like gravel, Elliott raises his head. Watches Octavio run back to him, messy hair whipping around his face, piercings glinting in the sun. Lips stretched wide in a crooked smile, arms curled slightly at his sides. He runs at an uncharacteristically slow pace; casual and nonchalant.

As usual, he’s not wearing much. This afternoon’s outfit consists of a sleek pair of shorts, and a heather grey sports bra that puts his array of tan lines on display. The dense amount of freckles across his shoulders are much more visible in direct sunlight, so much so that Elliott’s sure he could count them.

He drinks up the sight of Octavio: old scars, burns, beauty marks and all, until he feels something drips onto his lip. Pressing a finger against it, he feels the warmth, then smells the unmistakable coppery scent.

“Ow,” he says, blinking at the crimson stain on his index finger. 

“You good?” Octavio crouches down in front of Elliott, gripping his jaw in a single hand. He swallows hard, letting Octavio move his head around, sizing him up. 

“ _Tranquilo._ Ain’t no big deal.” He licks the pad of his left thumb, and wipes the fresh blood away.

It’s warm and gentle. It’s the romcom moment, where the music would swell as the protagonists kiss at last.

Elliott’s childhood dream was to be a movie star. He went to plenty of auditions, memorized his lines, watched all of the classics. 

The only problem? Elliott Witt was one goofy looking kid. Complete with buck teeth, oversized ears, and a mess of untamed curls on his head. Standing just over 5’3” until his growth spurt in freshman year, he possessed no traits of a leading man.

He’s chasing that dream again when he presses his lips to Octavio’s. Tries to channel Mirage: the man that fits right in on a movie poster and knows the perfect time to kiss. 

Pressing through the seam of the other man’s lips, Elliott feels that split tongue and tastes the sugary sports drink he had earlier. Traces the outline of Octavio’s mouth, pushing himself into a sitting position.

While trying to adjust his position, their teeth clack together painfully, and he stutters out an apology.

_Elliott_ doesn’t perform well under pressure. Fills with anxiety until it clouds his brain, scrambling his words so badly he can’t string the syllables together. 

No matter how fast Mirage runs, Elliott Witt always catches up. 

It’s not often that Elliott gets to feel like a person. He’s Mirage: a Legend, a brand. A part to be played. 

But now, sitting on HQ’s beat up sofa, laughing and talking with his fellow Legends, he feels _normal_. Nothing more than a regular guy cutting up with his friends— an image ruined only by the picture of himself that’s printed on his cup.

Octavio sits beside him, legs thrown over his lap and a lithe arm curled around his shoulders. Fidgets uncontrollably, bouncing metal knees and tapping Elliott’s neck in a manic rhythm.

Occasionally, Makoa will crack a particularly good joke, or Ajay will tell one of her many stories, and Octavio will laugh _hard_. It bubbles up and out of his chest until he’s snorting through that crooked nose, wiping tears away from his eyes.

It’s a loud, full body affair, and Elliott is _enraptured_. Whenever Octavio releases one of those laughs he watches, noticing something new each time. Like the wrinkles that form at the outer corners of his eyes, or how the piercings through his right brow move when it’s raised in bemusement. 

A few strands of hair fall into his face, and Elliott brushes them away before he can think better of it. 

They freeze like that, brown eyes locked, and he knows that a line has been irrevocably crossed. Something between platonic and sexual: something _real_.

Then the moment’s over, and they try to ease back into the conversation. Elliott feels anxiety form in his chest, merging with insecurity to make something ugly and nauseating.

The roar of the night fades into a dull hum, and the group slowly disperses. By the time the last person leaves, the metal limbs on Elliott’s thighs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, trapping him in place. 

He can’t look at Octavio. Not now, not after drinking up every detail of the man’s face like water in the desert. The mask and goggles must be for everyone else’s protection, because Elliott doesn’t think he’d ever win a game again with _that_ distraction.

Octavio isn’t exactly handsome— but he’s nowhere near ugly, either. He doesn’t have the type of face that could be plastered on a magazine or billboard. It’s too angular, too asymmetrical for that, even without the scars. 

It surprises Elliott, really. He thought all billionaires had to be good looking. 

Perhaps it’s yet another act of rebellion. Octavio could get all manner of cosmetic surgeries without coming close to the bottom of his trust fund, but he refuses to. Instead blows his money on the very things that will give him scars, break bones, or another bit of steel to be forced through the skin.

Being pretty would be entirely too boring for him. So what the _hell_ does he see in Mirage?

Mirage made a point of making the newest Legend feel welcomed. After getting to know them in a game or two — even if they kicked his ass — he’d curate something for their personality; a custom hang out session with yours truly.

Deciding on Octane’s was simple: a drinking contest. 

While it was an easy decision to come to, it turned into a fairly dangerous one. Both men had a competitive streak longer than they were tall, leading them to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, dead on their feet.

Mirage sat on the hardwood floor, chin resting on the table between them as he watched Octane pour another round. Normally jittery hands were startlingly unsteady, spilling booze onto the already stained table. 

They’d spent the past few hours boasting, playing twenty-one questions, and laughing at one another’s expense. Now they sat in a drunken silence, too stubborn to just call a draw and go to bed. 

“Tell me a secret,” Octane said, bringing the shot glass to his lips. He had nice lips. “Somethin’ you never told anybody before.”

Mirage brought an arm onto the table, stretching a hand toward the other man.

“Pinkie swear you won’t tell.”

Octane snorted, then curled a slender digit around Mirage’s. “Swear.”

Elliott didn’t know what made him want to spill his guts. Maybe it was the booze, or the sting of a lost game. The feel of Octavio’s finger on his own, and those brown eyes watching him intently.

“I am _so_ freaking scared.” 

He doesn’t remember saying it in the morning. 

“—Listen, I know I ain’t the easiest guy to be around—“

Elliott shuffles to a stop at the sound of Octavio’s voice. It’s well after midnight, and he hadn’t expected to see another soul rummaging through the communal kitchen. Other than the decoy he’d sent to grab him a glass of water, who is now incredibly late.

“—But neither are you, eh?”

He turns the corner to see his decoy, standing by the fridge, with an expression that could only be described as a deer in headlights. Octavio stands in front of it, in a slightly more modest version of his usual sleepwear, scrubbing the back of his neck.

“I like being around you, y’know? Not just for the sex stuff. Though that part _is_ pretty fun.” He rocks on his metal heels. “You’re a cool dude— not as cool as me. But, like, second place.”

There’s a long, unbearably awkward pause. Elliott’s genuinely surprised that Octavio hasn’t noticed him in the doorway, heart pounding so loud that anyone could hear it. He recalls the decoy. 

Octavio spins around, unbuttoned shirt flying further open, revealing more of his bare chest. Flashes an incredibly forced smile, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks.

He’s hot and ridiculous and the most beautiful man Elliott’s ever seen. …Besides himself, of course. He can’t suppress the smile that stretches across his own face, or the butterflies that swarm in his belly. 

People want Mirage, but rarely do they want Elliott. Finding acceptance out of costume is an unfamiliar experience, but he _really_ likes it. Likes Octavio.

Octavio breaks the silence. “Don’t make me say all that again.”

Elliott momentarily breaks eye contact to look at the floor, still smiling to himself. “Second place, huh?”

He looks up just in time to see the other man surging forward. He’s ready this time, catching Octavio in both arms without so much as a stumble. He’s surprisingly light, wrapping around Elliott’s torso and slotting against it with ease.

They shouldn’t do this here, that little voice in the back of his head tells him. Anyone could walk in. But he’s entirely too busy being kissed to listen.

It’s rushed and messy, teeth clicking together more than once. It’s not a movie kiss, and he doesn’t feel like any kind of protagonist. 

He feels like Elliott— _Octavio_ makes him feel like Elliott. Strips away the familiar mask of faux confidence that shields the person underneath. The kid who didn’t have the face to be in commercials, the shortest guy in class, the drama geek. The man that gets lost in complicated words and sometimes gets so scared he can’t move. 

Elliott’s movements are fearless right now, however. He squeezes the backs of Octavio’s thighs, mirrors every quick movement of that clever tongue exploring his mouth. Hums in approval when blunt fingernails press into his scalp, then trail down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. 

_Walking_ proves to be more difficult, but they make the trip back to his quarters unscathed. Kicking the door shut behind him is distinctly Mirage; he thanks his alter ego for the move, and the ability to execute it smoothly.

Octavio’s muttering about there being too many clothes long before they reach the bed. By the time they do, he’s already shed his own shirt, and has started on Elliott’s.

Elliott can feel his arms starting to tire, and cradles the back of Octavio’s head despite himself. The guy’s done much worse to himself than be dropped roughly onto a soft mattress.

He tears his mouth away from Octavio’s to explore the column of his throat. Presses a wet kiss to the particularly noticeable beauty marks accenting the skin, and the vice grip around his waist tightens.

With their bodies completely flush against the other’s, Elliott can feel the warmth of Octavio’s arousal near his own, instinctively grinding toward it. It’s minimal friction but it’s glorious, and they both make noises they’d never admit to in daylight. 

Elliott continues to lavish the skin in front of him, while nimble fingers make quick work of his sleep pants, sliding the waistband below his hardening cock. On impulse, he snakes a hand down the front of Octavio’s custom underwear, biting back a moan in response to what he finds.

He’s _soaked_. Slick with arousal, engorged clit twitching and begging for attention. Elliott wants to suck him off, so he does. Slides those obnoxious briefs right off, spreads Octavio’s legs as far as they’ll go — which is pretty damn far — and gets between them.

Knees balanced on the hardwood below, he licks a stripe along the man’s arousal, tasting sweat and skin and something just a little bitter. Presses his tongue inside before tracing up the vulva and wrapping his lips around the swollen clit.

Octavio is watching him, neck craned. Small chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace, cheeks flushed and mouth slightly agape. Elliott’s own face burns like he has a fever, spreading down to his neck and chest. 

He gives the dick a hard suck, and it seems to remind Octavio of who he is. Throwing his head back, hissing something in Spanish, he starts to _move_. Tenses the muscles of his strong thighs around Elliott’s head, rocks his hips toward the friction, and kicks both legs. 

After a tiny metal foot ends up making contact with Elliott’s ribs, the prosthetics are promptly removed. He tries to deposit them onto the floor with a modicum of respect, but Octavio is already redirecting his attention, pushing his head between spread thighs. 

The metal clatters to the floor as he resumes, the two hands on the back of his skull guiding him into the best positions. Fingers tangle in his hair, giving the curls an abrupt tug whenever he does something particularly good.

Cock hanging hard and neglected between his legs, he squeezes it with a single hand. Feels the countless beads of precum that have already spread across the head, and imagines what it’d be like to fuck Octavio. Elliott’s not sure he could last a minute in the velvety heat, feeling the other man clench around him, pulling him deeper inside. 

“Fingers,” Octavio’s strained voice pulls Elliott out of his stupor. “ _Now_.”

Elliott nods dumbly, straightening his spine and releasing the hold on his cock. Spreads Octavio just a bit further open with the opposite hand, and slips a blunt middle finger inside. 

There’s no resistance. It slides in seamlessly, all the way to the hilt. Octavio’s already telling him _more_ and _c’mon_ in a breathy tone, wriggling his hips. Demands more until Elliott’s got all four fingers shifting in and out of him. Curling occasionally, earning a creative swear. 

Octavio moves Elliott’s other hand aside, and begins to jerk himself off. Moves his clit at a speed that’d be uncomfortable for anybody else, all while riding Elliott’s fingers at an accelerated pace. 

Elliott doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to be with anyone other than Octavio again. The man’s a force of nature like this, something to behold and _really_ freaking hot. And when he comes, it’s a storm that Elliott’s happy to be swept away by. 

Octavio is fairly quiet by his own standards, releasing a series of gasps that nearly die in his throat. Every muscle goes rigid, then his entire body twitches in a violent shiver. Elliott feels the warmth that surges out of him, retracts his fingers one at a time.

The refractory period is nonexistent. Elliott is barely standing on unsteady feet when Octavio grabs him by the front of his shirt, tugging him close. He falls forward gracelessly, given only a moment to register the change before his lips are captured in a bruising kiss.

Eager hands finally yank his shirt off, nails digging into the dense muscles on his back. During his unsteady climb further onto the bed, he sheds his pants, cock aching for any attention.

Before he can give himself any relief, he feels sharp teeth bite down on his lower lip. Whines in discomfort, but Octavio doesn’t relent. Slender hands grip either side of Elliott’s face, holding him in place as that modified tongue fucks his mouth.

Just as suddenly as it starts, it stops, and his head is moved to the side. Those sharp teeth nip his throat then graze over the sensitive skin, making him tremble. Octavio licks a broad stripe over his Adam’s apple and he releases something that sounds like a wheeze.

Then those hands are on his strong shoulders, shoving him onto his side. 

“You’re _so_ slow,” Octavio complains, hurriedly moving into a new position. Squirms until his back is parallel with Elliott’s chest, already reaching behind to take hold of his cock.

Those nimble fingers lace around the heated flesh and Elliott chokes on air, watching, enraptured as it slides between Octavio’s thighs. It’s a tight fit, aided by the arousal sticking to the skin, and Elliott’s head swims. 

He’s vaguely aware of Octavio telling him to put it in already, but he’s otherwise occupied trying to differentiate between up and down. Hears a huff of mild annoyance, then his cock is suddenly sliding into slick heat.

Elliott surges forward, wrapping an arm around Octavio’s torso and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Feels his eyes roll back in his skull, euphoria crashing over him like an ocean wave. 

Presses himself further inside inch by inch, nipping the shell of Octavio’s ear when he tries to complain about the pace. Elliott thinks he could teach a class on self control with how hard he’s holding himself back, focusing entirely on not coming prematurely. Or is that what the other man wants? 

Either way, not everyone present has an inhuman refractory period, and he wants to experience every second of this possible. 

He runs an appreciative hand along Octavio’s body; starting with the dip where his hip and waist meet. Then over his flat belly, coming to a stop on his chest, cupping a breast and thumbing the nipple. 

Elliott smiles against the shaved part of the other man’s head. “You’re so hot. Feels am-ama— Great.”

Elliott knows he’s _that_ guy. The one whose brain to mouth filter is apparently attached to his dick; making him babble on and on. Octavio’s giving him a run for his money, though. 

Each ‘ _you like that?_ ’ is met with an equally enthusiastic ‘ _yeah, I do_ ’. A constant stream of curses in both English and Spanish, and plenty of self aggrandizing. Octavio rocks his hips to meet every thrust, braces a hand on Elliott’s waist, urging him to move faster. 

Elliott thinks he’s set a pretty good pace for them, until Octavio squeezes his flesh. Throws his head back to make eye contact, face flushed and pupils blown.

“C’mon, Ell,” he huffs, the tiny ring through his septum bouncing in tandem with Elliott’s thrusts. “This really— _aah_ — all you got?”

Mirage and Elliott might be vastly different men, but they do share a few traits. One of them being an easily baited competitive streak. 

With a grunt of determination, Elliott pushes Octavio onto his belly. Positions his larger body above him, pushes strong thighs apart with his knees, and gets between them. Pushes back inside, and sets a brutal pace.

Elliott pulls himself almost completely out before thrusting into the hilt, filming the room with the sounds of skin against skin and strained mattress springs. 

For once in his life, Octavio has nothing to say. Eyes clenched shut and releasing a breathless laugh, he grips the headboard, fingers curled around the oak. Elliott watches lithe muscles move beneath the freckled skin of Octavio’s back, then layers his hands over the other man’s.

Lacing their fingers together, he pistons his hips at a hurried pace. His thighs burn with overexertion but it is _so_ worth the noises he’s earning, the delicious heat around his cock.

Elliott’s climax sneaks up on him, only giving him enough time to stammer out a quick warning before he goes over the edge. His cock pulses, shooting thick ropes of hot come while he collapses into the other man’s back.

Octavio already has a hand between his own legs, feverishly stroking his clit and gnawing his bottom lip. He’s clenching around Elliott’s softening dick, earning a few whines of overstimulation.

Then he comes, tight and warm and perfect in every way. Cries out, gasps something that sounds very much like Elliott’s name. 

The molten heat seems to have melted, weighing down every limb. There’s a particularly wet sound when he pulls out. Tries to get up and grab a cloth to clean himself with, but is struck with a wave of exhaustion.

He drops back into bed, settling for using his discarded shirt to clean up. Octavio actually sits fairly still, letting Elliott wipe away the come seeping out of him, then moves for his prosthetics.

Elliott grabs them for him. Listens carefully to the instructions for how to pop them back on, adjusting the complex pieces of steel. 

“Think I get why you have fans now,” Octavio muses, gnawing on a fingernail. Even in the haze of afterglow, he needs an outlet for his boundless energy.

Elliott gives a wry smile. “What can I say? I’m the whole package.”

Octavio rolls his eyes— but doesn’t disagree. Abruptly hops out of bed, and starts to shimmy back into his underwear. 

“Gotta bounce. Still got stuff to do.”

“Mhm,” Elliott’s too tired to protest, lids drifting shut the moment his head hits the pillow. “Love you.”

He realizes what he’s said a beat too late. His eyes fly open, the heat of shame creeping across his face.

Octavio stands at the side of the bed, hands on his hips and brows raised in bemusement. Elliott takes the fact that he hasn’t bolted as a good sign. 

Another beat passes, and Octavio sighs exasperatedly. Lips stretching into that signature crooked smile, then blows him a kiss.

Elliott catches it. Feeling a bit silly, he waits until Octavio is gone to press it against his mouth.

It’s one of the few things he’ll never have to share with Mirage.

**Author's Note:**

> @gibraltane on twt


End file.
